


All the Demons

by Neffectual



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Animal Abuse, Animal Death, M/M, Psychopathology & Sociopathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 03:06:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2093328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neffectual/pseuds/Neffectual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Children who kill are the darkest side of humanity, something ruined before it even came to bloom; but there are different sides to each of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Demons

He sleeps like a baby, feather-light lashes draping over alabaster cheeks stained with the faint pink hint of exertion and heat from the bathwater. The same pink stain as slicks the white porcelain, diluted red from the droplets on the floor, soaking into the oak floorboards in the dusty silence as the Louis XIV clock ticks on the mantel, counting the seconds down until the eyes will fly open, one deep blue pool, the other purple and stained with the taint of hell. For now, the soft sounds of a cloth on the bath, smearing the pink thinner and thinner, mingle with the soft breaths of a sleeping angel. Sebastian has his shirt sleeves rolled up, gloves off as he cleans, the mark on his hand throbbing gently with the proximity of his master. It hurts, but not beyond measure, and besides, he's always been stoic about pain. In that way, the two of them are more evenly matched than many others.

When they're on the prowl, they're both blank; Sebastian calls it the face of the wandering father, and always casts a glance ruefully upwards when he speaks about it. Murder is nothing to them, the pain of others is nothing, but there is no enjoyment in it, merely matter-of-fact need. These people are evil, they need to die. The young master never stops to question if he shouldn't, in fact, be classed as evil too, for the murder he commits in the name of justice. And that's the secret, in the end, his lack of empathy would damn him, but his solid belief in his Queen, his country, his God save him, time after time, leave him walking that precarious line between good and evil, each death at his hands tipping him back towards the centre of the scale, but never weighing him as heavier than the feather of lies.

The two of them stalk the night like killers on the loose, cats slinking through the darkness, and always, always find their prey. He is the Queen's Watchdog, and he always gets his teeth into the meat, and the man who slides away into the inky blackness behind him is a hellhound, eyes red, teeth bared, always answering to his master. Be it right or nay, this child has a developed sense of right and wrong; he is always right, and everyone else is always wrong. This isn't unusual in those in his circumstances, but for once, he is endorsed by those above, he is pure, he is sweet, and his demon companion can not help but wonder if this contract, too, will be rescinded. Perhaps it need not be honoured by the angel child, he considers, wiping away at the blood on the floor, too late for it not to have dug into the grain. His master's coat drips onto yesterday's newspaper, awaiting cleaning, in the hallway, more spots of crimson falling. But what, Sebastian wonders, does blood matter when you have no cares to honour it?

He dances wildly, like a puppet, all glee and vim until the lights go out and he is struck with the axe, falling to the ground. The triplets play violin, the lighting is dizzying, and everything is off-kilter, like a humming noise you can't quite place. Claude clenches his hand around the back of the chair, knuckles going white under the glove, and tries to resist the urge to beat the brat until he stops crying. When the boy falls still, panting, he simply gestures to the chair, and the boy sits, eating his soup as if he hadn't just made a literal song and dance about it, as if he isn't the most annoying, aggravating individual on the planet. The knuckles tighten as the boy spills the soup, green all over the tablecloth, and Claude makes a list of things he'll do when he gets the chance.

When Alois was younger, the old man bought him a succession of pets; it had to be a succession, because none of them ever lasted very long. The hamster found itself involved in an experiment in drowning, the kitten was sliced thinly from the feet up, to see how long it would live for, the rabbit was stamped on until its spine broke, and the white mice were burnt, squeezed, burst and bitten. No, pets don't last long in this household, and the staff aren't exempt, either. They've all felt the boot, the hand, even the furniture, on the occasions when the master can be bothered to throw that about as well as his weight. In this house, the master's whim is everything, and his whim is so often violence. In a way, Claude recognises the pattern; the boy is sick, insane, wrong inside, his lack of empathy and lack of feeling turning him into a thrill seeker, and the greatest thrill of all is the death of another. Hannah watched him dance and laugh at the death of the village, as the whole swathe of it burnt, and she knew, even then.

They're alike, though, as two new pins, in their attitude towards others. Claude isn't fooled in the slightest when the brat says he loves him; what he means is that he'd love to manipulate him, love to see him twist and hurt like those in love do to each other. Well, he's not stupid, and the boy deserves the crushing blow dealt to his skull if he thinks he is. Of course, the brat comes back, worse than ever, eyes pleading, begging for attention. Claude thought they'd cured him of high ledges when they taught him that hanging off windowsills for shock value didn't work, but it seems the master has developed a taste for higher places. And it's not like Claude wouldn't laugh in the brat's face if he fell, but that's not his body up there. His body is stripped naked and curled up for storage, a spare in case it's needed – that body belongs to a pure soul, untainted with death. However, he thinks, as he watches the body teeter on the precipice and idly considers the mess it will make when it splats, what use is a pure soul if you can't make it scream a little?

Whilst the two of them are twisted together, Ciel struggles to stay above water, above the thoughts which tell him to kick, to beat, to snarl and claw at everything, struggles to keep the calm façade on, even as Claude attempts to slide a hand higher up his thigh. Alois sings at the thought of Claude beneath him, bloody and bruised, manacled, perhaps, and it turns Ciel's stomach. That is wrong, without a shadow of a doubt, to hurt the one who keeps you. He keeps craning his neck for Sebastian, needing to see him, needing something familiar to latch onto, but it is too late. Alois wins out.

Although Ciel vanishes into the depths, Alois is, for the first time in his life, unsure. He is feeling – feeling – something new, something strange, which he thinks might be a little like guilt, or sickness. The other boy has left pieces behind, thick, bloody pieces, chunks of saccharine, and he's swallowed them all down by mistake, not knowing they were full of shards of glass. He feels full, aching, and know, for the first time, what it means to know right from wrong. He wants to glory in Claude's constant defeat in the maze, the way he snarls as he reappears, but instead, all he feels is a deep hurt that the demon will not even lie to say he loves him. It never mattered before, but now, with these new sensations, it seems that it is the only thing which does. The glory of killing is no longer as bright as the glory of love.

**Author's Note:**

> Ciel's profile is based on the classic sociopath - a knowledge of right and wrong based on the values of a peer group. So as he is advocated by the Queen and told he has behaved by Sebastian, he believes his actions are right, and this is why, despite being a killer himself, he has a pure soul. 
> 
> Alois, however, is based on the way child murderers who grow up to be psychopaths tend to act. They torture animals as well as those around them, revel in violence, and take power and satisfaction in the pain of others. The thrill is all that matters, there is rarely a motive to their killings.
> 
> All in all, I wanted to focus on the differences between the two boys, and the similarities.


End file.
